


MMOM Compilation 2020

by calixte



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Compilation, Crossdressing, Dry Orgasms, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Somnophilia, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, bad bdsm most likely, don't know what I'm doing tbh, not really a series, sexting and drinking, some real weird dynamics here, unfulfilling orgasms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calixte/pseuds/calixte
Summary: compilation of short (and not-so-short) ficlets for the MMoM challenge
Relationships: Eve Blanchard/Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Jessica Whitly/Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Vijay Chandasara
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63
Collections: Merry Month of Masturbation 2020





	1. Flattering Lineup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akingnotaprincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akingnotaprincess/gifts).



> If you enjoyed this, come on down to the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/nBYCCwX)!

They’d been here before: Dani didn’t necessarily have familiar knowledge of Bright’s apartment, but she’d been in the kitchen, the bathroom, and what passed for a bedroom. Granted, he’d been tripping out at the time and she’d clocked him against the shower wall, but still her memory of the space hadn’t deserted her. Now, as then, Malcolm was wearing one of his expertly tailored suits as Dani threaded the leather strap of his wrist cuffs through the buckle. He watched her with strangely alert eyes, pale as they tracked her fingers’ movements. 

She had such dexterous hands, tapered fingers and nimble movements. It was enough to get his blood racing, pulse thrumming in his neck where he could feel his own heartbeat in his throat. It showed, too, the way the crisp smooth fronts of his trousers pressed out, the whole length of his cock stiff and straining; it had been a while since he’d had company. As she put it. 

“Dani,” he murmured, voice thick from both exhaustion and arousal, and he hoped she...well, he didn’t hope she wouldn’t notice his erection. Didn’t know what he hoped, actually; maybe that she’d straddle his thighs and ride him until orgasm could bring on some kind of sleep. It wouldn’t last long, but better than nothing. 

“Bright, you need sleep,” she refuted, not even looking up from locking him into bed. 

“I...might need something before that.” Her wrist brushed his hip as Dani let her hands fall, tracing up his arm to look at his face, and if it made his voice quiver Malcolm didn’t care, couldn’t help it. He could get out of the wrist cuffs himself, he’d made sure to rig them with quick releases for that very purpose. 

She rose to her feet, took a step back and aside, and Malcolm felt his cheeks and throat heat. He hadn’t blushed in a long time, not for a girl or anyone else, but before he could do much more than lay his head back on the pillow and sigh the bed dipped under her weight between his legs, those oh-so-beautiful hands undoing his button and fly, leaving him the room to unclip one wrist and take his straining, throbbing cock in hand. He expected to hear the door shut firmly next, the glass panes rattling in their frame, but they didn’t. 

Instead she was easing her own pants down, peeling them open over her hips, hand sliding into her underwear where he could watch as her fingers curled over her mons. Malcolm let out a strangled sound, almost a moan when they both touched themselves, each watching the other work themselves. Her fingers rubbed in and out, thumb circling her clit in a mimicry of what Malcolm’s hand was doing, twisting along his shaft and rubbing his palm over the head. Her sounds, her breath thickening and nearly panting, drove Malcolm’s speed as his eyes slid closed, listening to the wet noises coming from where her fingers slid in and out, slick where her underwear was pushed aside, legs spread as far as her jeans would allow. 

“Go deeper,” he murmured, head tilting back as he watched Dani finger herself from under the fringe of his lashes, his hand jerking faster, squeezing tighter around his cock when he came back down, ankles flexing and extending. “I want to hear how deep your fingers can get,” Malcolm encouraged, earning himself a momentary sharp look from Dani before her mouth curled up and she walked herself up the length of Bright’s body, straddling his hips as she pulled her hand free, fingers glistening with her slick. She traced them up the column of his throat, over his jaw to his lips: Malcolm would have been surprised if he hadn’t been so turned on, and eagerly accepted them, tongue lapping at the pads of her fingers and sucking gently. 

He still had his free hand around his cock, his other still cuffed to the restraint strap, only now when he slid his fingers up his own skin he could touch her as well, dragging the tip of his thumb over her through the thin fabric of her underwear. Gray floral: it was a nice touch, and he traced the edges of the petals, rubbing her with the velvet-soft head of his cock and his fingertips both, barely showing a smile. “Come on, Bright boy, show me what you got.” It got him to groan, the sound practically dragged out of his throat from around her fingers--he wasn’t giving up that taste yet, not by a long shot. 

He squeezed himself harder, stroking again and rubbing his knuckles against Dani, skimming her clit and feeling her muscles contract as she sighed, focusing in on Malcolm’s face. “Keep going,” she told him, brooking no argument and rocking her hips, rubbing against his dick, enjoying the friction of her skin on his hand and the slip of her wetness between them. 

It didn’t take long: Malcolm was quiet as he came, lips wet and red as they stretched in a silent oh, eyes fluttering as he shook, hips pressing up and jerking uselessly. Dani lifted herself up on her knees to ease the pressure, but also to tease him, making him whine as he came down, body still spasming. That didn’t mean he was entirely out of commission, though, and twisted his hand, clever fingers sliding past the opening of her legs and tugging her underwear out of his way. Dani choked out a soft noise that might have been a squeal, gripping Bright’s wrist as he worked her up. 

She pitched forward with a cry as she tipped closer to the edge, leaning over his stomach as Malcolm fingered her, curling and uncurling his hand and rubbing his thumb firmly against her clit until he could feel her hips kick forward, calling his name on a gasp. “Oh... _man_ , god. Bright,” she panted, breaths coming shallow and fast as her pulse thrummed; she finally pulled her fingers free of his lips, sliding off his hips to the bed for a moment. 

“Flattering lineup,” he chuckled belatedly, tongue sweeping over his lip as he unclipped the other cuff, freeing both hands and drawing her up to his mouth by the open, unzipped front of her trousers. “Come here.”


	2. Gil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how Gil masturbates. first in a series of character studies.

Gil has a practiced hand at this: usually he only resorts to jacking off if he can’t sleep, though it’s a rarer occurrence for him than for Bright. In the bigger-than-he-needs queen bed, one side still empty from Jackie’s presence, he flips the blanket and sheet off, skimming his hands over his waist until he can pull the band of his shorts down around his hips. The hem of his undershirt rucks up around his bottom ribs, and wrapping his fingers around his soft cock is easy, gentle. He doesn’t like discomfort in this, though he can deal with it everywhere else better than most: part and parcel of being in any way connected with the family Whitly. 

He fondles his balls in his other hand, knees bent and spread as he plants his feet on the mattress, spine bending into a comfortable slouch as he moves his hand faster. He’s no stranger to playing with other things--he had been married, his wife had been curious and he’d been obliging--but that’s not for tonight. Tonight, he just wants to get off, and reaches blindly for the lubricant he knows he keeps in the bedside drawer and thinks about as little as possible. He’s hard already, the familiar fantasy of some vague Hollywood starlet--quickly and somewhat ashamedly replaced by the sharply dressed and almost intimidatingly arousing Jessica Whitly--coming to mind and filling out much the same speed as he does. 

He’s thick enough, but his fingers can wrap around his cock, the soft pads of his fingertips tracing the veins that scroll along the underside. It helps him feel the plateau coming: tonight isn’t about prolonging anything, he just wants to lull himself to sleep. As the sensation ratchets up his breath comes slower, shallower, and his legs tense, pulling his belly taut and pushing his shoulders into the pillow. Climax comes with a series of moderately quiet, panted noises: his walls aren’t soundproof and he and Jackie learned ages ago that the neighbors could hear them past a certain level. He’s never been much of a shooter, and his come spurts out on his stomach, dripping over his thumb and his wrist as he relaxes into a boneless slouch on the bed again. 

Sleep comes soon, and his last thought before it washes over him is that he really ought to call Jessica in the morning.


	3. Malcolm

The room is dark, only the passing headlights of cars from the street below filtering in through Malcolm’s window, and he’s awake. It’s not unusual: chronic insomnia is a legitimate diagnosis, and has been for years. He rolls to his back, arms above his head as he spits out the mouthguard, uncaring as it bounces off his skin to the sheets. The cuffs give him enough slack to move his arms around quite a lot, honestly; they’re only designed to keep him from sleepwalking. 

He cants his hips and a breeze from the fan ruffles his hair, mussed from the pillow, making him shiver and his nipples perk. Maybe some kind of release wouldn’t be a bad decision, though he can never tell when he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep afterward if it will be restful or dissolve into night terrors. 

But he’ll take the chance anyway. Working himself up and getting hard without using his hand takes _hours_ , rocking up and back against the mattress and curling his fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to sting and ache as he eases off: he wasn’t lying when he’d told the gym owner weeks ago he was a masochist. Malcolm is just a _specific_ sort of masochist. He likes a little discomfort if it was soothed, he likes flashes of pain if he knows the intent behind it. He digs his fingertips and his nails into the meat of his forearms, leaving tiny bloodless crescents behind and red trails as he drags his hands apart, finally shoving the waist of his shorts down to his hips so his cock bounces up and against his belly. 

He’s circumcised, not unusual for a man of his age, and his fingertips tangle in the pubic hair he doesn’t shave off as he slides them down, parting around his cock as he strokes himself, slowly pulling up and rubbing his thumb around the frenulum, that wonderfully sensitive strip of skin that makes him shiver as he scrapes his thumb over it. A sluggish electric sensation crawl up his spine, exactly the same as it does when Gil puts a hand to the back of his neck, subtly commanding but still friendly. 

He hums out a sigh and parts his knees, kicking off the shorts and imagining a heavy hand--Gil’s, anyone’s really, though he tries to shove away the flash of his father’s face, beaming with pride--dragging down his belly as his own do. They pinch and rub, nails scraping at his thighs and up against his balls as he presses his fingertips against his perineum, just at that spot that makes stars burst behind his eyes. 

Malcolm gasps in air, fisting his hand around his cock as he bucks up from the mattress, hitting a plateau and feeling the frission along his skin that foretells orgasm curling in his belly. His spine bends like a hand cupping his back and the only sound out of him as he comes is a soft whine, eyelids fluttering as his cock jerks. His fingers are sticky and wet with his own semen before he rubs it into his skin, thumb stroking just where his hipbone juts up against the skin. 

Four hours until dawn.


	4. Orgasmic Anejaculation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little malcolm/martin

Malcolm is gorgeous splayed out like he is, pale chest exposed as his spine bends, still adjusting to the position Martin’s locked him into; both ankles are shackled together, and the short strap of leather that hooks onto Malcolm’s collar keeps his head angled back lest the boy choke himself. Martin sits comfortably in his desk chair, eyes focused and sharp as they watch his son, legs splayed and his cock hard already, jutting out of his neatly-creased dress trousers.

“That’s it, my boy. Touch yourself for me, show your old man how you feel,” he encourages. “Just your hands, get yourself hard. I want to see,” Martin murmurs, voice at once soothing and infuriatingly arousing to Malcolm. This game they play is twisted, but his father knows just how to work him up and give him the blissful, mindless release he so craves, so he plays along. 

He loves it. 

“I want you to come as many times as you can, Malcolm. I’ll be keeping count, and mind you don’t stop until I tell you to,” Martin reminds him, though they’ve discussed this scenario before. Malcolm had been the one to suggest it, in fact; a trial of sorts, to see how many times he could climax before he simply couldn’t manipulate his own body into it anymore. It doesn’t take long between Malcolm’s steady jerking and Martin talking to him all the way with beautifully filthy suggestions to get to two orgasms, and back-to-back that’s no mean feat: Malcolm had barely finished shaking from the first one when he gasped as if the second had taken him by surprise. 

“Keep talking to me,” he grits out, wild blue eyes locked onto his father’s face, reading every word falling from his lips. “Keep going. _Sunshine_ ,” he gasps, hips rocking and making his collar tighten, the mild asphyxiation only making his dick harder in his hands. The third orgasm leaves him sweaty and shivering, the dampness on his thighs and belly and fingers feeling cold in the chilly air of the basement hobby room. “Just green! Please.” 

Martin smiles indulgently; he has yet to reach the peak himself, but _damn_ if he isn’t enjoying seeing Malcolm come again and again in front of him. There are skinny pencil strokes in neat lines keeping score, as promised, on the paper at Martin’s elbow. “Keep it up, my boy, you can keep going,” he rasps out, voice shaking in time with how his arm jerks. “Two more, and I’ll give you what you want, I’ll let you swallow me down when I come,” he suggests, and the idea is enough to have Malcolm keening and shaking in his restraints, the hardware jangling as he comes again with a rough cry. 

His skin is flushed now, Malcolm’s cheeks and throat and collarbones red with a sex flush that make his lips look damn near obscene the way he’s licking them to keep them wet. It’s clear to Martin he’s reaching his limit, and though his cock is still hard, Malcolm begins to slow his stimulation, brows creasing as the friction treads the fine line between pleasure and discomfort, and tips into pain. “Don’t forget to keep your hands wet, Malcolm,” Martin chides gently, making his son bring his cuffed-together hands up to lick his palms, though it doesn’t make the continual masturbation any more comfortable. “That’s it. Stroke yourself, let me see how much you can take, my beautiful boy.” 

Fifteen minutes comes and goes with Malcolm slowing down, and his noises get progressively louder as Martin encourages him, not letting Malcolm stop jerking himself for long: he sobs out a broken _daddy, please,_ and Martin almost breaks roles, but they haven’t used their safewords yet. He just hums, watching Malcolm through inscrutable eyes as his son groans and curls in on himself despite cutting off his own air supply, unable to stop the physiological reflex until he topples over onto his side, toes curling as he bends back again, sacrificing comfort for being able to breathe. “Malcolm?” he questions, sliding forward in his chair, letting his cock bob freely as he moves his hands. “Tell me your words, my boy,” he murmurs, waiting and listening. 

“S--S-- _Sweater_ ,” he rasps out, shaking like a leaf on an autumn twig, huge eyes wet with stubborn tears fixed on Martin’s face. “I’m sorry, dad, I’m sorry,” he babbles, words tripping over each other. “Sweater, _please_ , I can’t--I need you to help me.” Martin is out of the chair and kneeling on the concrete floor in an instant, cradling his son’s head in his lap, unsnapping the collar lead and letting Malcolm’s back unbend. He’s still hard--both of them still are--and Malcolm’s eyes squeeze shut as Martin takes his son gently in hand, fingers curling around his cock almost in a caress, possessive as it is. 

“Daddy’s got you, my boy, just relax. I’ve got you, I’ll help,” he soothes, despite the thrill in his voice as Malcolm’s hands clench around Martin’s forearm; he stops for a second, waiting for their stop safeword to come spilling out of his son, but Malcolm just bites his lip and thrusts into his father’s hand wildly. It’s the first time he’s seen his son orgasm dry, but it’s breathtakingly, achingly beautiful. Malcolm’s spine bends and contorts like a feather cupping a fresh wind, and his whole body shakes and convulses, his eyes rolling back white in his head. 

Martin loves it, and talks him through his final orgasm, murmuring sweet approvals and encouragements to Malcolm, stroking warm hands down his shivering limbs and kneading into his thighs as he unclips his ankle shackles, getting a rasped-out groan from Malcolm every time his hands come near the boy’s cock or his balls, still drawn up tight. It gets a chuckle from Martin, and he rolls Malcolm into his arms, standing and arranging the boy on the desktop with his head lolling over the edge. “Do you still want to finish, my boy?” he asks, cupping Malcolm’s chin and cheek with one strong hand, watching as Malcolm tries to nod, eyelids still fluttering. He can see his boy’s pulse pounding in his neck, not yet come down from the last climax. “I need your words,” he says, brooking no argument. 

“Sunshine,” Malcolm murmurs, nearly slurring the sound blends. “Sunshine. I can finish you, daddy,” he says, watching Martin’s upside-down face through his lashes. God, his boy has such features, such _looks_ , and Martin is tempted to buy him all the makeup Jessica wears, just to see him transform. But that’s another fantasy, and they have something to finish tonight. 

“Alright, my boy. You earned your reward.”


	5. Kama Sutra Show'n'Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drunk sexting. who knew, right? 
> 
> title from Charlie Puth's song 'Marvin Gaye', which was the soundtrack to this nonsense.

Malcolm is very drunk. 

He’s been steadily killing a bottle of scotch all evening, and is currently lounging on his couch with his slowly sweating glass when he has an idea. It’s a bad idea, he knows this. He knows, and yet he doesn’t stop to think it through; he only loosens his collar, thumbing open the top two buttons until just a hint of collarbone is visible past that rocks glass his lips are on. 

His face is blissfully relaxed, eyes just unfocused enough to make him look perfectly debauched and dissolute. It’s that notion, and the touch of pity that he hasn’t had anyone get that far in _a while_ , that encourages him to send the text. He watches for the notification of receipt, and laughs when Dani and JT both type something but think better of it. He’ll have to provide them with something better, then. The next picture is his shirt entirely unbuttoned, hanging off one surprisingly muscular shoulder--the exercise routine he keeps up with is useful--and the one after that, the waist of his trousers are undone, belt open and hanging halfway to the floor. 

That finally gets JT to reply: _Bro you’re drunk AF. Gonna regret it in the morning._ Malcolm laughs, and knocks back the last of his drink, and pours another. He’s feeling too good to try sleeping now, and keeps taking pictures. He’s still on the couch, and the next snapshot is of his throat, head tilted way back as he rolls a whiskey-flavored ice cube in his mouth, making his adams-apple bob. 

Dani has admirable restraint: she lasts through all that and the next one of the half-melted ice cube held between his lips and fingers, tongue swiping over the corner, before she finally sends something. _Bright. How much money are you drinking right now?_ and he barely needs to think about it before sending her a reply of _not enough yet_ and a picture of a perfectly impish smile with the mostly-empty bottle behind his head. 

He’s almost disappointed that Gil hasn’t replied yet at all, but he’s been paying attention: all the pictures are marked as read. He just hasn’t typed anything, not even to delete it. Malcolm decides to up the ante as he swallows more scotch, and has to let himself laugh the stray thoughts away before he can take a picture of the cradle of his hips, band of his underwear pushed low enough by his thumb to expose the edge of his dark patch of hair, only a centimeter away from showing them all his dick. It still gets nothing, and Malcolm almost frowns until he sees Gil finally break and start typing. He thinks it might be prudent to take it easy on the old man, and the last picture he sends is one of his eyes in center frame, clear unearthly blue focused right at the lens, lips wet and parted, strands of his hair sent scattered out of place over his brows. 

Five minutes later and Malcolm gets an incoming picture from Gil; he crunches on his ice cube and opens it, nearly choking when he’s greeted by the expanse of Gil’s belly, pants open and his sweater pulled up, cock out and still hard in the man's off hand though the pearlescent wet stripes on his skin are unmistakable. The accompanying text says only _Those eyes do it for me every time._


	6. Black Satin Sheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve and Malcolm try to have a decent sex life. Predictably it does not go well.

He’s on a date with Eve when Malcolm first has an inkling that the evening might not go well; at first he pushes it away, dismissing it as his normal paranoia, something he’s always trying to push past. For a while it works, lasting him through dinner--what of it he ate, anyway--and most of the cab ride back to his apartment. He’d been banished from it all day as Eve had said she wanted to surprise him with something afterwards. 

Malcolm had tried telling her he and surprises rarely went together well.

The second inkling this is not going to go well is that she’s changed his bedsheets: from their normal soft gray linen, they’re now a faintly glossy-looking black, quilted with tiny diamond patterns. He has a horrible flash of the front of a man’s thermal vest and it makes his stomach turn, but _they’re on a date_. He doesn’t want to ruin this, not when he thinks he might actually have found companionship. 

The third comes much later, after Eve has been able to successfully distract him--it’s a miracle how clear his mind is when she’s kissing him, like all other thoughts are simply shoved aside, the blissful blankness uninterrupted until their lips part. She had confessed she wanted to try pegging, and Malcolm...well, he hadn’t done it _overly_ much, but he had gone to college and boarding school, he had taken a dick in his ass before, he wasn’t ashamed of it. Other guys just hadn’t been what turned him on. Attached to Eve, however...that was an entirely different story and got his pulse racing faster than he thought anything short of the high he got when profiling could. She’s taking it easy with him, hands smoothing over his chest and waist as she leans over his back, kissing his shoulder and neck as he takes the toy with a soft groan, leaning forward on his elbows and knees for leverage. Her nails scrape across the scar from the stab wound John Watkins gave him, and Malcolm almost comes out of his skin. His hands fist in the sheets, eyes squeezing shut. 

But he says nothing, doesn’t mention it, and lets Eve think it was just that the penetration felt good. And it does, he’s already getting hard between that and her fingers tangled with his around his cock. He breathes deep, and reminds himself he’s safe, he’s here with Eve, Eve won’t hurt him. It’s all in his head. 

The fourth time, and by far the worst, is when her fingers run through his hair, tugging ever-so-lightly on the short ends before she takes both his hands in hers, urging him to slide into the fleshlight that had been positioned under a pillow, held at just the right angle for easy use. He can’t help it; yes, the sex feels damn good, and he likes Eve pressed to his ass and thighs and back, but the feeling of hands gripping his and the delicate whisper against his ear of _you can do this, Malcolm_ is too much. He freezes entirely, musculature rigidly tight for the scant seconds he has to endure the flashback before his brain can force out words. 

“ _Stop! Box, just stop--I have to stop--get off me,_ ” he blurted, words all running together and tumbling over his lips as he clawed his way free. Eve pulled away, not angry but concerned--she knew Malcolm’s mental state was fragile, he’d been honest with her filling in the gaps in what Jessica hadn’t said--but she didn’t risk touching him again. She shed the harness, hands up and only gently trembling as she scooted back to the edge of the mattress, giving Malcolm room. He was curled on his side, his hand shaking like it always did when something made him remember something horrible. 

“Malcolm?” she asked softly, unaware of the tricks his mind would be playing on him, but wanting to soothe him nonetheless. “Malcolm, talk to me, what’s wrong? What do you need?” she asked, moving only slowly, hesitantly towards him until he uncurled enough to look up at her. 

“I--I’m okay,” he managed, as convincingly as ever, which wasn’t very. “I’ll be okay,” Malcolm amended, sitting up. He was still hard, but Eve didn’t reach for his cock to start again. She knew enough to know that was a stupid move. She just leaned in to brush her fingertips over his forehead, smoothing back the hair she’d mussed up, keeping their eyes locked and making sure he was looking at her, focused, not sliding into another flashback. She curved her fingers around his cheekbone and down his neck to his shoulder, watching him seriously. She wanted him to be okay. 

He knew she desperately wanted him to be okay, which hurt in new and undeniably painful ways for him, the knowledge settling in his belly like a lead weight. 

It only made him feel filthy--filthier than he already did, as though the shower they’d shared hadn’t cleaned anything off him, despite her careful hands with the soap--when he watched her dozing on the couch with his still-hard, aching cock in his hand. It hurt, the aching heaviness making his skin prickle uncomfortably as he thrust into his hand, teeth set into the skin of his knuckles to keep from making sound. The last thing he wanted was to wake her with this, with the sight of him flushed and damp and spurting onto the black sheets in a mess, feeling the awful conflict of physical pleasure and emotional sordidness. 

He had to strip the sheets and remake the bed before he could even consider sleeping, not that it would be a good idea to begin with after the events of the last several hours. He had to laugh, a soft and frustrated huff as he buckled the wrist cuffs around himself. 

Malcolm Bright would never be _okay_.


	7. Husband and Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little Martin/Jessica flashback-y thing

Martin’s hands were art. The way he held a scalpel so delicately, so carefully as he cut open a body, long tapered fingers skinned in blue nitrile and slick with blood, it would have been impossible to not find them breathtaking either in attraction or in horrified fascination. They held a woman’s wrist the same way, had held _Jessica’s_ wrist like that, but had turned sharp and angular and powerful as he slid down to her hips; her legs were parted around his waist as he buried his cock in her wet heat, head tossed back with a joyful shout.   
They’d made two beautiful children much the same way, he leaning over her, one strong and muscular arm braced on the pillow by her head. His wife always felt so good, so hot and tight around him as if she craved what he gave her as much as Martin himself did. He encouraged her hips up to meet him as he thrust, letting himself go as he bottomed out, his orgasm washing over him like a collapsing wave on the shore. He thought about that now, locked alone in a cell that was nothing like the place he’d called home, where he’d built a family and a life. 

His hand was a pitiful excuse for the encompassing heat of another body, the slickness, the _tightness_ , everything. But it would do, it would have to for now. He could lose himself in the memory of his wife and how amazing she’d always been in bed, how lovely in her dresses and tailored blouses, all the clothes he so delighted in stripping off her when they had time to themselves. But he could imagine her still so vividly, almost bringing himself to the edge by the thought alone. _Almost_.

Martin’s thoughts turned to his boy, Malcolm, all of his mother’s bright eyes and full lips, her slender frame hiding a core like a steel shank. He loved finding how closely he could skin down to that center, watching and waiting for Malcolm to bend or break. Oh, what he would do with that: his boy, a shivering, tearful mess on the carpet, begging for something he couldn’t give himself. The excitement made his thighs seize and his back arch as he spilled over his fingers, pulling his cock and letting out a sigh. The sound was thick from his throat as his head fell back and he slowly, slowly relaxed. 

Martin could take Malcolm and mold him back into shape, use the hands he’d been given to cut away the tremors, the uncertainty, unleash the beautiful creature hiding just beneath the surface. He smiled, slow and soft as his muscles unwound from the tenseness of orgasm.

Oh, it would be lovely.


	8. Two Lips Like Roses and Clover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little late-night quasi somnophilia. As you do.

It wasn’t that Malcolm had an overwhelming paraphilia for sleeping people--he really didn’t--he just envied everyone that was able to sleep without being assaulted by fractured memories and flashbacks. That envy firmly included one Gil Arroyo, currently resting a little crooked in his office chair, gently, breathily snoring. His head was cocked at what would be a very uncomfortable angle if he stayed like that much longer. 

It wasn’t that Malcolm had intended to slide under the desk, unerringly comfortable on his knees, or to lay his head in Gil’s lap. But one quick-fingered hand rubbed up the man’s thigh to worm under his sweater hem and undo his slacks, peeling apart the fly and trying not to wake his longest friend and current sometimes-sex-partner. He managed it carefully, cheek still pressed against Gil’s leg as he cupped his hand around the man’s soft cock, scooting forward enough to touch the velvet-soft head to his lips. He explored the feel of Gil’s cock hardening in his hand, as long as his own but thicker, darker. His skin felt so soft against Malcolm’s mouth, interrupting his exhaled breath and begging for his tongue on it. Malcolm gladly gave in.

It wasn’t that Malcolm intended to start sucking him in earnest either, but he loved the smell of Gil’s soap and fabric softener and his skin, all warm and heady and surrounding him like the safest and softest of embraces, and Malcolm needed that. He’d never known Gil to keep it from him, either. So when all he heard was a soft sigh of a groan from above his head, he glanced up only to be greeted by Gil’s still-sleepy face, confused and turned on by Malcolm in his lap, but evidently very willing to keep going. If the hand that crept into his hair along the nape of his neck and the softly-spoken _good god, kid_ were anything to go by, anyway. 

Malcolm did intend to take himself in hand, trousers open but hardly even pushed down as he jerked his cock, already hard and damp without any effort on his part. It wasn’t the sex, not entirely; it was the safety, the way Gil held him carefully still while he rocked his hips against Malcolm’s wet, swollen lips. It was the gentle press of fingertips against his scalp and shoulder, careful not to dig in too hard. It was the quiet huffs of breath that were all Gil let out for noises. 

He whines, the sound more a vibration in his throat that tears a groan out of Gil--one he’s hoping can be confused for a sleep sound. He pushes into his own hand, the friction not nearly enough to get him off yet even though if he squeezes his cock any harder Malcolm knows it would hurt. He takes Gil’s cock all the way down until the end of his nose is buried in the scruff of pubic hair that frames the lieutenant’s dick. It only means that his next inhale is all Gil’s scent, and turns that little desperate whine into a moan, Malcolm’s spine sagging as he bends his neck to get closer still.

Gil cuts off a soft grunt at that, teeth clenched already. He doesn’t want to turn this rough on the kid, and doesn’t think he’d do a great job of it anyway, half his brain is still half-asleep, but _damn_ if Malcolm can’t pull an orgasm out of him like he’s twenty-three again. He just leans back in his chair and spreads his legs more to give Malcolm more room to get closer, watching through hooded eyes as Bright sucks slowly and contentedly. It’s like he’s in the happiest place in the world right now on the floor under Gil’s desk, and he’s loathe to shatter that illusion quicker than he has to. _If_ he has to. 

It only takes a few more minutes until Gil groans again, head falling back and his jaw working as he breathes out Malcolm’s name over and over: _Bright, Bright, Bright_. It’s a quiet litany as he’s coming onto Bright’s tongue and his lips as the kid pulls off him, nuzzling against his oversensitive cock like a cat with little licks and kisses that are far too erotic for what they are. But Malcolm hasn’t finished yet, still achingly hard and still knelt on his floor, and Gil doesn’t hesitate to give him what he needs. He pulls Malcolm up into his lap, all graceful long limbs and a half-flushed, aroused face, for once not chased by shadows. His hair is mussed out of place and Gil kisses him full on the mouth, one hand cupping the back of his head and the other palming his slick cock.

“ _It’s okay, kid, I got you,_ ” is all he whispers, and Malcolm unravels in seconds. 

His eyelids flutter like a trapped butterfly against Gil’s cheek, choking out a broken breathy moan as he shoots all over Gil’s hand and his own, body slackening until he nearly slides out of the lieutenant’s lap. Gil holds him up, taking his hand off Malcolm’s cock and pressing it to the small of his back, uncaring of the mess he’s making of a shirt that probably cost him three days’ pay. He doesn’t take his other hand off Malcolm’s head, only gently maneuvering him to lay against Gil’s shoulder. He’s whispering to him as Malcolm’s breath calms, his heart no longer kicking like a frightened rabbit. 

“ _I’ve got you, Malcolm._ ”


	9. Mama's Girl | Daddy's Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm Bright / Vijay Chandasara / Sunshine the Bird
> 
> don't @ me

Malcolm rarely left his phone in reach when he was in bed; he had enough trouble there without inviting the entire world to his trauma. He could still hear Vijay’s gentle voice coming through the speaker, though muffled by his sheets. 

“Baby boy, I bet you look so amazing, all fucked out and lazy,” he murmured; his voice was growing more contentedly soft as Malcolm relaxed, eyelids drooping even as he buckled himself into his wrist cuffs, metal jangling. He and Vijay had spent hours on the phone talking and sending each other pictures; Vijay had loved the shots of Malcolm with his legs spread, one knee bent to get a good view of what he was doing with his fingers. Two had been curled under his balls and pushed into his ass, scissoring while he wished he could stroke himself _and_ take pictures. 

The limitations of the human body were honestly frustrating sometimes. 

Vijay had sent him teasing shots of his shirtless body, trouser buttons popped open but still up, barely hanging off his narrow hips. Malcolm would have given almost anything to have him here, in bed, pressing him into the mattress with his solid warmth. He’d retaliated with a photo of his belly almost showing his cock but not quite, the close-shaved stubble of his pubic hair giving the only indication of where the camera was aimed. It had proven quite effective if Vijay’s loud and stuttering moan was any clue. 

Malcolm had smiled widely, still working himself to orgasm as Vijay had talked to him about how good he was sure Malcolm’s body would feel under his hands, how he’d map out every single hotspot and lick his baby boy from neck to knees. The idea had been enough to get Malcolm to convulse, jerking as he imagined that tongue laving him. It was almost enough, and the sound of Vijay’s breaths in his ear pushed him over the edge at last, legs tensing and pushing his hips up off the bed, toes pointed until his shins ached. 

He’d collapsed back onto the sheets all but trembling from the exertion, and that was where Malcolm still lay. The phone and Vijay’s voice through it made him feel relaxed as they murmured to each other, each feeling no need to get louder than they had to. Malcolm had chuckled when he heard the telltale rustling of Sunshine’s wings flapping over, landing on the pillow. The bird made her way with little fluttering hops to Malcolm’s chin, balancing there as he spoke: the oxytocin flooding his system made his voice warm and sweet, which Sunshine greatly liked. 

“Hey Sunshine, who’s mama’s girl?” he chuckled breathily, lifting an already-cuffed wrist to pet the parakeet’s head, gently stroking a fingertip over the bright green plumage. Sunshine ruffled her feathers and peeped quietly, getting a delighted laugh out of Vijay through the phone. 

“Mama, huh?” he asked, voice indulgent and drawling with lazy humor. 

Malcolm only hummed, too content to be affronted as he explained. “Mmm. Pets respond better to the labial hum sound than a voiced fricative,” he sighed. “Like _Daddy_.” 

Vijay groaned, hot and low like the word from Malcolm’s mouth had pulled a visceral sensation from him. “Fuck, baby boy, you’re trying to kill me,” he panted. Malcolm knew exactly what that panting meant, that though Vijay was spent he was desperately aroused again. He only smiled as Sunshine rubbed her beak against the end of Malcolm’s nose, pecking affectionately. 

“Mmm, Daddy’s boy,” Vijay hummed, low and erotic. Malcolm could hear the wet sounds of him still stroking his cock. “Gonna make me cum again,” he groaned. Malcolm smiled, edging into a yawn as he settled back into the pillows. 

“Mama’s doing a damn good job, then,” Malcolm singsonged.


	10. Gorgeous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossdressing, masturbation, voyeurism.

Malcolm didn’t often dress like this, and strictly only in the privacy of his own home. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be male--he very much is a man, and he likes that. But the clothes are softer and smoother, lying closer to the skin, and he just wants to feel...something else. Pretty. Worthwhile. _Different_.

The dull gold shorts exposed the long length of his legs, bare all the way down to the ankle strap of his flats, and the sequined top showed off much of his chest and all his arms and shoulders. Ainsley had come by earlier and as usual for his little sister, had played with his hair until it was fluffed and styled around his face, had done his makeup so his eyes were shadowed in deep plummy purple, his cheekbones highlighted. Malcolm draped himself over the arm of his couch, stretching his back as he breathed in enough to make his lowest ribs stand out against his skin, making the sequins on his blouse shift and spangle in the light. He sighed it out and slid his palm up his belly, feeling the contrast in his skin and the soft silk fabric lining. 

He wasn’t expecting to hear the glass in his door rattle to the rhythm of a knock, and to hear Gil Arroyo’s voice coming from beyond it. 

“Bright? You decent?” he asked, though evidently wasn’t willing to wait for Malcolm to answer, instead opening the door himself. 

Malcolm was going to _murder_ his mother, right after he figured out what to do as he scrambled off the couch, his shoes sliding on the floor as he flung himself around the bathroom door, leaning into it as he heard Gil’s voice ring out again. 

“Malcolm--”

“--I’m not dressed,” he shouted back, pulse spiking. What the hell was he going to say to explain this? 

“Come on, city boy, I’ve seen you in less,” Gil chuckled, seeming soothed enough by getting an answer. “Remember all those summers with me and Jackie?” Malcolm had of course showered while at his house, and though he’d taken quickly to sprinting from the bathroom to the guest bedroom, Gil had gotten an eye-full a fair few times. 

The sound of the bathroom door opening he’d expected, head turning...and his breath catching in his throat. 

“Kid,” he croaked out, mouth suddenly feeling bone-dry as Malcolm stepped out in _those clothes_. The gold made his skin look pale, perfectly flawless--he’d shaved his legs, leaving them shapely and smooth. And his hair, his eyes...god, his lips too, painted a deep and sexy red. Gil could feel his cock hardening already in response to the sight of Malcolm crossing the room dressed like that, hips swinging even without the help of heels. “Holy hell.” He could imagine Malcolm laid out on the bed like that underneath him and felt his skin break out in waves of goosebumps.

Malcolm still looked apprehensive, but not as spooked as he had at first. “Gil. It’s not what it looks like,” he began, hands extended until he remembered Ainsley had wanted to try out a new color on him, trying to match the nail varnish to his eyeshadow. _Shit_. 

“Bright.” It was a relief to hear Gil use the name he’d happily adopted when Malcolm had changed it. “Come here.” He patted his knee, expecting the gesture to be understood. Malcolm came closer, head down and looking steadily at the floor. 

“Before you say it it’s not--it’s not that I want to be a girl,” he says. “I just...it feels different. It’s easier to…” he shrugged, words faltering as his cheeks heated under the blush Ainsley had applied. “It helps me get off,” he blurted, words rushing over each other. 

At least it was out.

Gil, quiet, only waited expectantly for Malcolm to come close enough so that he could hook his fingers in the pockets, tugging Bright closer to stand between his knees. He could see the bulge of Malcolm’s cock through the fabric, right at eye-height for him as he looked up at the profiler’s face, knowing that brain was working at a frantic pace. “Show me.” 

With slow but steady fingertips, Malcolm unclipped the fastening to the waist of his shorts, leaving them open and hanging from his hips as he reached up to tug loose one of the shoulder ties that held his blouse up, letting it fall and expose his chest. The other followed suit and Malcolm pulled it off over his head, ruffling his hair, leaving him more bare than not. He slid his hand into the shorts, sliding his fingers over his cock and pulling it out to stroke himself. 

He pushed at the material of the pants, but Gil shook his head, leaning back on the couch with his legs spread, eyes intent and trained on Malcolm. He didn’t have to say anything: Malcolm knew what the words would have been. _They stay on._ It took twenty delightful, utterly fascinating minutes for Malcolm to come, thighs tense and quivering as his hips thrust into his hand, semen painting his belly and dripping slowly down his skin. Malcolm swayed, reaching out to steady himself. 

Gil got to him first, hands bracketing Malcolm’s slender waist as his thumbs swiped through the mess the kid’s cum had left, drawing him close to press the softest of kisses to his belly, rewarded with a fluttering gasp. 

“ _Gorgeous._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you, like me, are an extraordinarily visually-motivated person, here's a [treat](https://ucb367328ef2fe6a8c5bce5e9317.previews.dropboxusercontent.com/p/thumb/AAy51UeGEj5SjmCpJ2tjPspjSmUxhuWxcipSlTLjC8vWu0YCrRIqp5SyuMqrUmI2en1QDwrDMyDMifjezJltvbKebw77SfssQrJUbrYJx8OnhnBsBDOyTapsNX1DJCmCVBbFZJY_VWC15xbyHDT8meGmtIoyEEbWvOwFNllPrBHG06vrzXluUYfCYgTwFgciXu3ix56l0k-bgTYiJuFvXbxL2AyiIYyV2aIMmitaxwGrtnUsmGI_unXHyQ9jv4a72xq6kaX4OQqFWgsPXi0VxB2kERhfDt77SnA9eRi3iKRDX2TofNO7kqrNnyiiYeMxMBmK32e43gEOl-rfjHdJolHlBaC1BXv9gwoS55OjcXJrib88GwjVogECFcl378LDYZcB6Jcn98eNm240Tum_TfDe/p.jpeg?fv_content=true&size_mode=5).

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, come on down to the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/nBYCCwX)!


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